I'll Walk You Through It
by Intervigilium
Summary: Challenge Fic. Contestants had 24 hours to write 1500 words about "A Love Story". The person that challenged me wrote: /s/12371801/1/The-Language-of-Flowers


**DISCLAIMER** : Characters and most cited events are the property of J. K. Rowling. But she's okay with this. ;)

A young man entered the small workshop area he improvised out of what once had been a small bedroom. He fastened a broomstick over two adjustable supports to keep it leveled and in place.

"Got ourselves a little winded today, huh?"

(He knew none of the charms applied to it – most recently, all done by his own wand – could make a broom truly sentient, but habits were habits.)

Two nicks to buff along the handle; the frame, slightly bent; and no more than five twigs to set straight. All in all, considering it was from a crash and slip along the left hoop, this was minor damage; his left shoulder, now a little less sore, took the worst of the fall.

"And we kept the Quaffle, didn't we?" he asked, massaging the spot that still hurt.

Pulling a worn bench closer to the table, he still inspected the broomstick intently. So intently that he only heard the knocking on the door when his own fist stopped applying gentle taps to the metallic rings holding the twigs together.

He gave his apartment corridor a quizzical look, positive he wasn't expecting visits; certainly no visit a head shorter than him, black-haired, with kind eyes, pink cheeks and impeccable red lips.

And yet, there she was.

"Oliver Wood." It wasn't a question.

"I know you," he said without thinking. "I mean, yes, I am, but – I do know you, don't I?"

Her face betrayed reticence; nevertheless, she seemed pleased to be recognized.

"We've met, briefly. You helped mend my wounded leg."

"Right, of course. Not long after the battle, near the Grand Staircase."

"You've quite the memory."

He thought of telling her how some days are simply too monumental to forget. A younger Oliver might have.

This Oliver was still learning how easy it was to be misinterpreted.

"It comes and goes," he answered modestly. "You'll have to forgive me, but I don't remember –"

"– I'm Hestia," she said, a hesitant hand placed over her heart. "Hestia Jones. I didn't expect you to remember me, certainly not my name."

He shrugged, smiling. "Taking Bludgers to the head is an occupational hazard of mine, Hestia. You were right to doubt my memory in the first place." He pressed his hand uncomfortably against the door. "So, what can I do for you?"

She looked uneasy as well. "A little bit of wisdom, really. I promise I won't take too much of your time."

It was only then that Oliver felt the chill come from the corridor. It had been a particularly nasty winter up until now. "Merlin, I'm so sorry, you must be freezing. Would you like to come in?"

Hestia didn't want to appear relieved, but failed. "Thank you," she breathed, enjoying the warmth of the apartment as Oliver sealed the winter outside. He indicated the couch and told her to wait as he fixed them something to drink (coffee for him, Clipper for her).

"So, wisdom. I'm not sure how much you'll find here," he resumed the conversation, passing her a steaming mug.

"Thank you," she smiled. "As for the wisdom part, we have a mutual friend that seems to think you're one of the highest authorities she knows when it comes to broomsticks."

He was about to ask which friend was that, but the compliment found a way to keep her anonymous. And his curiosity was somewhere else entirely the second the word "broomstick" was mentioned.

"I read the manuals", he jested modestly. "Are you considering buying one?"

"Having one appraised, actually."

Hestia pulled a wooden case (about the size a chocolate box would be) out of the bag she was holding, and gave it to Oliver. He opened the lid, finding nothing inside.

Hestia blinked. "Oh, right! I'm sorry, I forgot to –" she left the sentence unfinished, shaking her head and muttering something to herself. She pulled a wand from her trench coat and tapped the box once; slowly, Oliver could discern the tip of a broom, vertically aligned. He let out an involuntary whistle.

"This is a Silver Arrow."

She nodded. "It was my father's, and the box came with it – at least that was his story."

There was a bittersweet tone to her words; he didn't dare ask why it was no longer his, and for how long. Her father's story, however, Oliver knew to be true – Leonard Jewkes was rumored to have made less than fifty of those. Supposedly, it was quite the ordeal to get the Ministry's approval for the Extension charms on the casings.

Wood carefully retrieved it. He could tell it hadn't seen much use in the last few years. Coffee completely forgotten, he continued to examine it, much to Hestia's quiet amusement. She was torn between disguising a cough and admiring Oliver's thorough evaluation.

Almost as if he read her thoughts, he turned around. Hestia was still drinking her tea, but her cheeks indicated a smile behind the mug.

"I'm sorry – it's just that this is a piece of wizarding flight history. For me, that's just about the same as early Christmas."

She laughed. "Don't be. Clearly, I came to the right person."

"Well, I'm not sure how much help I can be, Hestia," he said, holding the broom over his knees with reverence. "It's in extraordinary quality for its age; any broom-maker that values their craft will attest the same, and their opinion will be far more meaningful than mine."

She set aside the tea. "Well, you said it's in good shape. Is it good enough to cover long distances?"

"She should be able to take you wherever you need to go," he said.

"What about covering long distances fast?"

"... How fast would you need to go?" he asked, officially confused.

Hestia's eyes narrowed and she lowered her tone just above a whisper. "Faster than the other people who'll be going in the same direction."

Once more, Oliver wished he could read people just a bit better.

"Are you planning to win a race or steal something, Hestia?"

She offered Oliver a flyer, laughing. "Just the race, really." It was advertisement for Sweden's Annual Broom Race.

"Wasn't this year's race a few months ago?"

"I'm preparing for next year's. The sooner I start, all the better."

"Hestia… as good as this Arrow still is –"

"You don't have to tell me, it's an old broom. But I heard the charms can be reinforced to the point where it could match even the finest new models."

"Theoretically."

"All things begin with a theory, Oliver."

Wood looked at the broomstick once more. She wasn't wrong, but the thought instilled more fear in him than possibilities; yes, broom charms could be reinforced and prolonged, but there was always a chance that he could ruin the item entirely (a crime he simply could not consider). It was almost easier for Oliver to make her a new broom from scratch than 'tuning' the work of another (incredibly accomplished in his craft, by the way) wizard.

But then he looked back at her, and saw the same youthful enthusiasm in her eyes that he had in his when his family gave him his first Cleansweep so many years ago.

"A Silver Arrow to beat the Silver Dragon. Certainly has a nice ring to it."

"Beg your pardon?"

It was Wood's turn to laugh. "You know the prize to this," he held the flyer up, "is a silver trophy shaped like a Swedish Short-Snout, right? And the course sort of runs through a dragon reserve."

She narrowed her eyes; half smirk, none of the menace. "I'm aware."

He shrugged, putting the Silver Arrow back in its box. "Well, if dragons aren't enough of a reason for you to give up… what chance would I have to do the same?"

That half smirk instantly turned into full-grown smile. "Is that a yes, then?"

He nodded in response, failing to suppress a smile of his own. While unexpected, this was not an unwelcome project.

"Well, since we have an agreement, what's the current price for putting an old broomstick up to high-end specifications?" she asked. Oliver made a face.

"Were you actually talking to a _proper_ broom-maker, and not a Quidditch Keeper with a lot of free time, you'd be on to something. We're not going to talk about gold; I'll have none of it, Hestia. Mainly because you need to understand that there's a risk involved, a botched charm can –"

"You won't botch anything, Oliver."

"You can't be sure of that."

"Perhaps I can," she folded her arms conspiratorially. "I'm actually a very, very powerful Seer."

"A Seer," he repeated.

"The likes of which this world has never seen," she nodded with no trace of mirth at all in her voice. He wanted to chuckle, but thought best to keep a straight face.

"Right. So, all-powerful Seer, you already knew I was going to accept your proposition?"

"Of course."

"And what about the race? I see almost no point to putting effort, really, considering you already know if you'll win or not."

"Ah, _young one_ , there's a difference between knowing the path, and walking the path," she said, pointing a cheeky finger towards him. "You have much to learn."

"Young one?"

"What? I figure – I mean, I _know_ – that I'm a little older than you. And no, it's not proper of you to ask how old."

"As if I needed to be a Seer to know that."

"Touché." She smiled, declaring the banter over. Hestia stood up and he mirrored her stance.

"All joking aside, Oliver, thank you. You have no idea how much this means to me, really. I reckon I'll leave you to it, then," she added, walking towards the door. "Will you keep me updated of your progress?"

"I suppose updates won't be a problem – we'll have to meet quite a bit this next year."

"How d'you figure?"

Wood smirked. "Suppose those Seer's powers need recharging." He indicated the box he still held with the care he'd spare a baby. "This was your father's broom, yes?"

She nodded calmly.

"You're about to attempt – I'm sorry, win (he laughed; she rolled her eyes) – a race of roughly 700 kilometers through dragon territory. You'll need this Silver Arrow to be an extension of yourself. I need to know how you fly in order to best adapt it to you."

"And you're not a broom-maker, you say," she said, grinning as he opened the door for her, shrugging.

"Whatever you do, do it well."

There was that smile again. "I like that."

Oliver tapped his own forehead. "Plenty of wisdom to go around. Don't worry, Seer, I'll walk you through it."

"I'm sure you will," she scoffed. "When will that be, by the way?"

"Next Friday?" he offered. "I'll be free all day."

"Next Friday." Hestia nodded, beaming. "Until then."

* * *

Oliver pointed the chopsticks towards his plate, chewing the crispy beef and broccoli in delight.

"This is fantastic, by the way."

"Thank you! Dinner's the least I can do, since you won't accept any payment. I don't suppose you changed your mind about that."

"Not really."

Hestia shook her head, smiling. Chinese cuisine was one of her – few, she assured – addictions, and with said addiction came the necessity to cook it herself. That, or spend her entire savings and future earnings to make sure her favourite takeout restaurant's owners would put their children through school; their grandchildren, too.

It had been a lovely afternoon; she had suggested earlier that week that they should find a secluded field where Hestia could take the old Silver Arrow for a spin and Oliver could make any observations he required. Oliver, in turn, made arrangements to use Puddlemere's training grounds.

And observe he did. Hestia had the makings of that rare breed of really talented flyers that didn't get to spend as much time as they wished to among the clouds. The quiet bliss of her zig-zags, the focus through sharper turns, dives and ascents; it was all there.

She was far more natural about it than a quarter of the players he faced regularly in his professional life. And after several applications of Hot-Air Charms to recover and her insistence that he at least eat some dinner with her, he made sure she knew that.

"You flatter me," she blushed. "I could never play professional Quidditch like you do."

He responded with an inquisitive stare, noodles almost reaching his mouth. She seemed almost apologetic about it. "I never did like the competition aspect of it when I was in school – which is probably why I didn't see you start playing for Gryffindor in my last years there. I loved flying for flying. I still do."

"Then why are we here? Why race at all? And why race it with _her_?" he pointed the chopsticks at the Silver Arrow.

Her features and voice didn't mask the heartfelt confession that followed.

"Because of Dad." She looked at the broom fondly. "He planned to do the Sweden Race for his entire life, but something always came up. Another plan, some last minute arrangement… eventually, he just needed to be an adult. And Dad always put everyone else first. Always put _me_ first. And I, well… I'd like to make sure he knows that, wherever he is now, he always came up first to me as well.

"Even when you didn't know how to show him that," he followed. That, he understood all too well.

She nodded. "Even then." Hestia smiled at him, and turned her attention to her own plate.

They allowed each other a little silence.

"This really is a great recipe," he muttered.

Unfortunately, with only the sound of each other's breaths in the room, she heard him perfectly, and couldn't help laughing at his discomfort.

"I'm sorry," he managed, joining her. "In all honesty, transition skills in conversation have always been a bit of a challenge for me."

"Eh, I wouldn't worry, Oliver. _I'll walk you through it_ ," she said, pleased with herself.

* * *

It didn't happen overnight, mind you.

Were he closer to his teammates, he'd be spending most of his free time with them (but the strenuous tactics the new coach submitted them to would often make them too sick of each other's faces those days for them to spend any extra time together).

If his family wasn't dedicated to travelling as much as they were, he'd see them more than simply at the Puddlemere games they could attend.

Had he reconciled with Anabelle, the _Amanuensis Quills_ ' shopkeeper he briefly dated after Hogwarts, well… it was for the best not to walk down that particular road.

And, while solitude never bothered him, all the circumstances of his life combined to make him anticipate each meeting he had with Hestia with growing joy. Outspoken and kind, she brought conversation out of him easily (true, most of it was about broom incantations and manufacturing processes, but still…).

He, in turn, did his best to listen, which Hestia appreciated immensely. Oliver looked at her – **really** looked at her – when she spoke, and could recall bits of information even she had difficulty to remember telling him.

And so, as the weeks turned to months, they found more and more reasons to spend time together. Often without discussing her trip to Sweden at all.

He needed help choosing a present for his little cousin's birthday, and they ended up fighting over the last pair of adjustable gloves that was on sale.

Then, she decided not to be the only part of that friendship that could cook and sent him culinary books from all around the world. Patriotic, Oliver made fish and chips with mushy peas anyway. "It's tasteful to have traditions", he pointed out, and it was such a miserable pun she had to giggle.

He started accompanying her through the field tests high in the sky. And it was poetry in motion.

Quidditch had its diagrams and tactics, vectors and statistics. And he loved the game for all those reasons.

But Hestia had touch. She was a snap, a surprise. She was long ascending arcs and unintentional perfect spirals. Here was someone who understood what he loved to its core, and _why_ he loved it even before Wood knew it himself.

But if it wasn't obvious to him, it certainly was to everyone else. Take Angelina Johnson and George Weasley, the day they finally decided to corner him.

"Say, Ollie, are you planning to make an honest woman out of Hestia anytime soon?"

True to form, Oliver responded the way only a man could.

"What?"

"Oh, come. You only talk about her. She seems to find you more tolerable by the minute. Are you two playing "The Fluttering Snitch" when no one's watching?"

"George!"

"Yes, love?"

"Be nice."

"It's Wood, Angie. If I don't speak Quidditch, he has absolutely no idea what I'm talking abo – OW!"

Oliver earned an appreciative glance from Angelina as George rubbed the back of his head.

"Seriously, though, Ollie… what's going on there?"

"Nothing!" And he meant it.

Didn't he?

Angelina and George exchanged knowing looks.

"Oh, it's something," she said.

"You just haven't done anything about it yet," he completed.

Wood leaned back against his chair, eyes narrowed.

"You two are scary when you do that."

* * *

And as much as he'd like to blame them, Oliver couldn't. The door had always been there; the Keeper just had to admit he left the door by a corner of his mind he judiciously ignored.

Problem was that he couldn't get the damned thing closed anymore.

Wood had never failed to notice how beautiful his most recent friend was. But back when they got acquainted it was a mere observation, much like noticing a flower growing through concrete; it was just there, and he couldn't miss it if he wanted to. Now, every detail about her was a vital part of his thought process.

 _What concrete?_

There was only Hestia. Her perfume. The smile she gave whenever she said "see you soon". Her arms, long petals reaching for a high cabinet, making her jumper rise only an inch to reveal a layer of soft, flawless skin along the waistline…

 _Shite._

"You've really quiet today."

"I'm naturally quiet," he mumbled inarticulately.

"Did something happen with the team? Is McMillan still giving your coach grief about being replaced?"

He turned away from the workbench to look at her. Not really, McMillan wasn't the problem. But Oliver had just realized he had been falling for a good friend, and he was pretty sure she had no idea whatsoever. She knew his life inside out, how to make him laugh, and didn't seem able to let anything go.

 _Right, that friend also happened to be you, Hestia._

"Team's fine, I promise." He even smiled convincingly. "You must be imagining things."

"I don't imagine things," she quipped, putting back the picture of Oliver and his little cousin she'd been admiring back on the wall.

"Of course," he smirked, clipping a stray twig. "A Seer knows."

If only, just this once, she knew. If only.

* * *

"You have to tell her, Ollie."

"She's off to Sweden this weekend, George. This is important to her – I don't want to mess things up."

"I still can't believe you're not going."

"I have a job."

"Take a leave."

"Sure. Have you met my coach? You might as well keep an opening for your next product stock manager."

"Doors are always open, mate. Will you at least talk to her when she comes back?"

"I –"

"I swear on Merlin's zimmer frame that if you say "I don't know", I will curse you where you stand."

"Just so we're clear, what curse do you have in mind?"

"Sure, keep playing with fire. Seems to be working out for you."

"… I don't think she feels the same."

"Only one way to find out."

"And if she doesn't? It'd be weird, and..."

"I'm quite sure you're the **only** **one** who thinks she doesn't have the hots for you too. Besides, if she doesn't, she doesn't. You're both adults, you figure it out. Isn't it better than not knowing?"

...

"Just tell her, mate."

* * *

She clutched the Silver Arrow close to her heart, took one, two, three deep breaths. Going over her plans, she revised her supplies, her clothes, and finally shook her head, exasperated.

"I should have kissed him."

Hestia's synapses reconnected a second later, and she noticed two other racers close-by giving her quizzical looks. She gave them an uncomfortable smile and moved along, the memories of her departure to Sweden still fresh.

Only during the last few weeks Hestia noticed how much of her preparations revolved around Oliver; not so much in terms of her father's Silver Arrow and other equipment, as it was about keeping her calm and assuring her that she could do anything she set her mind to. True to his Keeper nature, everything he did and said was geared towards her safety.

It had been a sad day, the one when Oliver told her he wouldn't be able to make the trip with her; far sadder than she anticipated it could be. She had rehearsed the invitation for weeks, never finding the right time to do it – and when she finally did gather the courage to mumble incoherently that perhaps, _evenifhedidn'twanttoparticipateheshoulddefinitelygotoSwedenforsupportandsightseeing_ …

He didn't have to, really. She knew that. Oliver had gone far beyond any expectations she had when she knocked on his door months ago.

Acquainted turned _pro bono_ consultant, consultant turned friend, and friend quickly promoted to one of her best; it had been too stellar a rise for her to wish anything else.

And yet, when he insisted she should double-check her pack to see if nothing was left behind and pulled her into a hug for good luck, all she could think about was how she liked it there. His scent – he smelled like mornings should (she smiled against his shirt when she thought of the comparison). His chin slightly tilted so she could fit under. The soothing hand rubbing circles that send little shivers along with the calmness Wood so often emanated.

She _belonged_ there.

But their bodies parted, they looked at each other, and in the space of a heartbeat, she could have kissed him. She should have.

 _Well, he could have kissed me just the same, honestly!_

HE should have, Hestia thought, frustrated. That was it; it was all Oliver's fault. And when she got back home she would grab him by his shirt and make him…

"Hestia Jones! Looking for one Hestia Jones!"

A boy looking far too young to be a part of the event's staff was moving along the small crowd, scanning left and right.

"That would be me," she raised her hand.

"Oh, good thing you're not flying yet. This just arrived for you," he said, unceremoniously giving her a square wooden box.

It was poorly wrapped with a thin ribbon, easily undone. Inside there was a long, thin neck chain with a pendant attached to it, shaped like a slim arrowhead. While the chain was silvery, the pendant was bone white: she could feel the smooth texture of polished rock even through her gloves.

And a note. There was also a note.

 _ **For luck.  
**_

 _ **I'll be waiting at the finish line – but you knew that already...**_

 _ **... you're a Seer, after all.**_

* * *

A wizard pointed a wand at her own throat. "Entrants, proceed to the starting area!"

Amongst the competitors, a young witch with an impossibly large smile squared her shoulders, kissed a pendant hanging loosely from her neck and looked straight ahead.

Oliver had better find something to hold on to near the finish line; Hestia wasn't sure, but roughly 700 kilometers of anticipation were probably more than enough to shatter lips on impact.

And she fully intended to put that theory to test.

 **AUTHOR NOTES** : Written for a challenge. Contestants had 24 hours to write at least 1500 words with the ingredient "Love Story".


End file.
